The Brother on My Back
by Anne Louise 2000
Summary: The year is 1990, and the world is becoming a very different place. Thirteen year old Sherlock Holmes, on holiday break from his school, has gone missing. When he reappears, he has an incredible story to tell. Mystery, intrigue and bad blood in an era of transformation.
1. Chapter 1

The Brother on My Back

Chapter 1.

Ian checked the micro cassette of the mini tape recorder: Almost out, and it was a long playing one. He removed it and glanced at the boy, who was staring at him. "Is the other side empty?"

Sherlock nodded stiffly. His thin face was pale; he had a sheen of sweat at the temples and across his forehead.

Ian flipped the cassette and rewound it; then held his thumb over the _record_ button, glanced again and asked, "Are you sure?"

Nodding once more, Sherlock replied, "It's too complicated to write down. Besides, there's a point that's not quite clear. But you'd have to understand the whole of it to be of any use."

Ah. Ian's jaw grew tight. The boy spoke in an aloof, almost conceited tone of voice, rather like his brother, and it rankled. Although sorely tempted to dress him down, years of working with this sort of boy had taught Ian to be patient. "Well, then," he smiled, "let's begin." He pressed the _record _button:

_Ahem. This is Ian Wharton, headmaster at Tillerman Independent Boarding School for young men. The time is eight thirty in the evening, on this, the fifteenth day of February, 1990, Thursday, the fourth day of our mid-term holiday week. I am at the Holmes' residence with young Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who is, as of this recording, thirteen years of age and a first year student at Tillerman. Sherlock went missing for a time and caused a good deal of worry in some quarters. To account for his whereabouts, he has requested to make this recording. Sherlock?_

Long pause. "I don't know where to start."

_Begin at the beginning_. _What happened first?_

A sigh. "Organic chemistry."

_I'm sorry?_

"Organic chemistry. The mid-term assessment. I sat for it-or most of it. That's how I missed my own chemistry mid-term."

_Organic chemistry is a lower-sixth course._

"Right."

Another long pause. _Sherlock, why would you sit for an exam of a course you're not to take for years?_

"Mycroft did it."

_Mycroft-_

"You knew about that, didn't you? It was his second year, end of spring term. He was meant to sit for his end of term assessment in Spanish but had wandered into the hall where the upper sixth were sitting for Italian. The master was gone; the person proctoring was clueless, and the thing had begun half an hour prior, so Mycroft was rushed to a desk with an exam slapped before him. He had never taken Italian, but he knew French and Spanish and Latin, so he shut up and shoved his way through."

_Oh, right._

"And then, because the proctor had pegged him for someone who had gone to hospital with appendicitis (but the proctor didn't know that), Mycroft was dragged off to resit the Portuguese exam the other student had missed the day before (because of the appendicitis), and although Mycroft had had no experience with Portuguese at all, he shoved through that one as well! Of course, he didn't show for his own assessment, so they rang Mummy and Daddy and told them Mycroft had gone AWOL."

_Yes, yes._

"I had come home for my end of term holiday that afternoon, and I remember how Mummy had slammed her book shut and shouted, 'For God's sake! What's he done now?'

"Then Daddy had said, 'Don't know, Darling. They're looking.'

"I said he was probably tucked in a corner somewhere, stuffing himself, but no one listened to me."

_Ah._

"Daddy said, 'He's only fourteen; he couldn't have got far. Sorry, Sherlock! Must stick by the phone. We'll have to scrounge our dinner.'

"We had meant to go to Changs that night. We never go to Changs. So I said, 'Couldn't you use your pager? We could go out, and if they find him, they would page you.'

"But Daddy said, 'The pager is for work. Mustn't misappropriate her majesty's perquisites.'"

_No-_

"We can never misappropriate her majesty's perquisites! It wasn't fair. And all we had in the house was tinned fish and tomatoes, and I hate tomatoes! Mummy did give me some wine- Well, a teaspoon in my water because I was only nine- and then I was bade, 'Go away.'"

_She was cross?_

"Not especially, no. I played Space Invaders until they rang to say Mycroft had been found. He had aced those assessments. Italian and Portuguese. Languages he hadn't studied."

_Yes. I remember._

"I'm rubbish at languages, but I like chemistry, and I wasn't allowed to take organic chem as a first year, so I nicked Mycroft's text and fixed it with three lower sixths from my house. I had to help with their problem sets and pay them a tenner each-That's half my Christmas money gone!-but they agreed to sneak me into the mid term."

_Oh! Organic chemistry!_

"Yes. Organic chemistry. That's what we've been talking about."

_Ah. Sorry. It's just- I just recalled there were some irregularities about that exam. You were there, then._

"Yes. I've told you that."

_Go on. What happened?_

"I was with my helpers that night, outside the hall-"

_Hang on, which boys were these? Your helpers._

"Chris Olson, Matthew Thomas and Clarence Peabody. I didn't pass answers! Simply sitting for a test that is not your own is not cheating. We didn't violate the honor code!"

_Not the letter of it, no. All right. You were outside the hall-?_

"I had to hang back and keep my head down, so I was making shoe deductions."

_Shoe deductions?_

"Deductions is a game Mycroft and I play; I'm better at it. We deduce all we can from objects or people. The Tillerman twist is that we determine who is from which house by their shoes. Comstock overlooks the bins, so it has the highest percentage of scholarship cases: Cheap shoes, maintained rather than replaced. Grayton has the best views and poshest furnishings, so it's for wealthy legacy men: Handmades, polished. Frye is far and away from everything, so the sons of foreign nationals are housed there-"

Ian snapped off the mini recorder. "Sherlock," he stated firmly, "housing placements are made without regard to income or legacy status or nationality."

"They can't be random," the boy insisted. "Mycroft and I have a seventy-two percent hit rate."

Carefully, "Well, no, they're not random, but neither are certain groups favored with special privileges. Applicants make their preferences known, and the final decisions are made by the board of governors and house masters, based solely on student interests and personalities. Students are placed where they would be most comfortable. Comfortable students are happy students, and happy students are successful students."

"I didn't get my housing preference," muttered Sherlock.

With a quiet sigh, Ian smiled politely. "And what was that?"

"Wilkerson, next to the science building," the boy groused. "But it's for legacy men whose fathers make no money, and geniuses and prodigies and the like: Not me. Mycroft and I both got stuck in Blaine with all the MPs' sons. They're always drunk! If it weren't for Mycroft, they-" He was suddenly quiet.

"Sorry? They-? They what?" Ian prompted gently but listened closely.

Sherlock's eyes were boring into the ground, twitching slightly. "They- If it weren't for Mycroft, they-" He met Ian's gaze and said, slowly, "No one would talk to me at all. And Mycroft hates me." He nodded at the recorder. "Might we get back to it?"

Making a mental note to dig further should this arise again, Ian gave the boy a sympathetic glance and pressed _record_- _All right. You were doing shoe deductions._

"Right. And I noticed all the left shoes from Grayton had these patches on the inner arches: Velcro. Odd. When we were allowed inside, I had my helpers sit me near the Grayton men: Third row from the back. All spread out. We began the exam."

_How was it?_

"Fine. It was fine. After a bit, I saw a Grayton man had crossed his left leg over his right knee and was looking at his shoe: There was a mirror attached to the velcro patch! And he wasn't the only one either; they were all doing it! They obviously had notes written under the desks and were reading them with the mirrors!"

_Yes._

"At first, I wasn't certain what to do."

_You could have spoken to the master. Quietly._

"Well, yes, but then I would have been caught. I needed a distraction, so I set off the fire alarm."

_How did you do that?_

"Do what?"

_The fire alarm. You had to break the glass. It was at the front of the room, and you said you were at the back._

"Oh. I had some gobstoppers in my pocket, and I laced the elastic from my sock garter round my fingers, like this."

_A hand catapult. You're an awfully good shot._

"Yeah, I'm good with a slingshot. I did miss at first, but I got it the second time! Smash!" A pause. "Gosh, it was awful! The noise! I managed not to yell. The master told us to leave our exams and evacuate. Of course, the Grayton men tried to rub out the evidence, but they were run off. As I left, I flipped over one of their desks. It was fairly obvious what had been there: Written in charcoal pencil."

_Yes._

"When I got out, I snuck away, and-"

_Did you leave your exam?_

"Yes. Of course."

_Whose name had you written on it? We collected the exams when the students were evacuated. There was none belonging to Mr. Sherlock Holmes._

"Well, no. You wouldn't have. I'd left the name line blank."

_Really? You- Really!_

"Yes. I had. Really."

_Right. Of course you did._

"Yes. But I had missed my proper mid term-"

_Is there anything else about organic chemistry? Anything more to relate?_

"No. So when Mummy and Daddy and Miranda came that evening to fetch us, Mr. Rose took them aside and told them I must resit it Monday. They were quite cross, and they said-" Long pause.

_What did they say?_

"They said- It's just- You seem to know some of this, so I must think it through: Paraphrase and summarize and prioritize, but- it's hard."

Once again, Ian snapped off the recorder and gave the boy a hard look. "Sherlock. This is to be an absolutely complete record."

Sherlock stiffened. "I- I know," he stammered, "but I shouldn't want to be tiresome. I go on sometimes, or so I've been told."

"Just tell the whole of it as it happened. I'll not find it tiresome, I can assure you." Ian began the recorder again-_All right, then. What did they say?_

A sigh. "Daddy said, 'You see, Sherlock, we had a surprise for you. We meant to take you and Mycroft and Miranda to dinner-"

_Miranda?_

"Our housekeeper. You know. You were talking with her tonight when I-"

_I know who she is. I'm curious as to why she was there that night._

"Oh! When we're on holiday, she sees to Mycroft and me. Mummy and Daddy take her lots of places if we're to go as well."

_I see. Your nanny._

"No! My last proper nanny was dismissed when I went away to primary school. Miranda just fetches us things and all. Talks to us. Mycroft fancies her, but she's far too old for him: Twenty-eight! And she has a boyfriend, although she's more taken with him than he with her, judging by the Christmas gifts they exchanged-"

_Okay. Let's continue with your account. You father had meant to take you to dinner-?_

"Right. So Daddy said, 'We meant to-' right '-dinner, then to Heathrow. I am flying to Moscow tonight, and Mummy to Los Angeles. She is to be the keynote speaker at the maths conference at UCLA. You three _were_ going to Los Angeles as well: Miranda was going to attend some conference sessions-' she's Mummy's student at the university as well as our housekeeper '-and you boys could have had fun poking round the research facilities, making observations. Perhaps taking pictures.'

"And Miranda said, 'Or gone to the beach. I was going to take you to the beach. Or Disneyland.'

"And Daddy said, 'But all that's off, I'm afraid. At least for you, Sherlock.'"

Ian pressed the _stop _button. "Oh dear," he said kindly. "You must have been terribly disappointed."

Sherlock gave a bare shake of his head and replied, "No. No, I was not disappointed. Not at all. Mummy always talks of taking us on her conference trips, but she always finds a reason not to, and she never does. Daddy goes on trips too, but he never even says he'll take us, so: No. Not surprised. Not bothered. Not a bit."

Ah. Making another mental note, Ian gave a final consoling glance, said simply, "I see," and pressed _record _again-_What happened then?_

"Yes. Well, then Mummy said, 'None of you can go. Really, Sherlock! This is completely unacceptable! The car is having its transmission repaired and won't be out until Saturday next! How is Miranda to get you to Tillerman?' That was a problem because we live quite far from the tube or any bus lines."

_Oh._

"Then Mycroft said, 'Los Angeles? I don't want to go to Los Angeles!'

"And Mummy said, 'Haven't you been listening? You're not going. I'll not have you alone with me, moping about.'

And Mycroft said, 'I didn't want to go! You should have asked me.'

And Daddy said, 'That's why we didn't ask you.'"

_Wait- Mycroft _really_ didn't want to go? To Los Angeles?_

"Of course not. Mycroft never wants to go anywhere. Then Daddy said, 'You'd best get accustomed to travel, Mycroft. You'll be joining me in Moscow after your A-levels. They've given me leave.'

"And Mycroft shouted, 'I will not go to Moscow!'

"But Daddy wasn't listening. He said, 'You've had half a term of Russian; you'll be fluent by summer, a valuable asset as the Soviet Union collapses.' Daddy works for the government, you know."

_Yes, I am aware. _Ian pressed _stop_ once more. "Why would Mycroft be an asset?" he asked.

"Oh-" the boy gave a tiny shrug. "He knows things; finds connections; makes predictions. He predicted that stock market crash, Black Friday, months ahead of time. The increased numbers of computer science degrees awarded in the last decade, you see. The drop in cocaine use in America. The rise in popularity of Cabbage Patch Kids. It was fairly obvious."

Ian watched the boy carefully. Finally, "Sorry. Cocaine use? Cabbage Patch Kids? I don't see the connection."

"It's complicated," Sherlock conceded. "Irrational people suddenly having more money and increased automaticity of trading. The prediction saved Britain loads of cash. Daddy was commended!"

"Ah."

"So if the Soviet Union is actually collapsing, Daddy would want Mycroft there to protect Britain's interests. But Mycroft said, 'I won't go! I can't go. I must monitor the revolution here.'"

"What!"

"Oh. Margaret Thatcher is out. Or will be in six months." The boy made an imperious nod. "Even I know that."

Biting his tongue, Ian began the mini recorder again-_All right. Getting back: What happened next?_

"Well, next, Daddy said, 'Mycroft-'

"But before he could finish, Mr. Rose returned, and Mummy explained our predicament. Mr. Rose said, 'I can't help with your holiday plans, but if transport to Tillerman is an issue, I might have a solution. There is a family residing at the Hurlstone City Farm nearby: A mother, son, grandfather, and, I believe, a great uncle. The grandfather is a magistrate and well respected in the community: His Worship, Victor Reginald Scott Trevor Musgrave the third. His grandson is Victor Musgrave the fifth, a second year student here, in Wilkerson. They might be willing to put our Sherlock up until Monday; shall I ring them?'

"And Daddy said, 'Do. Perhaps they could keep him the whole week. Then Miranda and Mycroft could go to LA!' and everyone spoke at once:

"Miranda said, 'Oh, yes!'

"Mycroft moaned, 'Oh, no!'

"And Mummy said, 'That's not necessary. The week-end is perfectly adequate. Come! Sherlock can remain with Mr. Rose until this Musgrave person can collect him.' And that was how I landed at Victor Musgrave the fifth's house last week-end. That's really how the whole thing began."


	2. Chapter 2

The Brother on My Back

Chapter 2.

"It didn't take long for Victor and his mother to collect me. Do you know Victor?"

_Of course, I'm familiar with all students at Tillerman-_

"Have you spoken with him directly?"

_Well, not as such-_

"He is nervous, poor, doesn't like sports and likes to be comfortable. His family was involved with the military, and while he is proud of this, he is at odds with the military philosophically. His family accepts his uncertainty, and dotes on him, to the point of indulgence."

_So you had known him all ready._

"No. I had met him for the first time that evening. So his mother drove us to the Hurlstone City Farm-"

_Sherlock wait. How did you know all that about him?_

"All- what?"

_About his being nervous, and how he felt about the military and all._

"Oh. His nails were chewed to the quick, and he startled easily, which said nervous. On his book satchel, he had sewn patches from the second world war that could only have come from someone who had served, but he had also sewn on a peace symbol patch: Ergo the conflict about the military. He had an earring hole in his left ear; it was empty, but he wouldn't have got it, or defaced his satchel, unless he were indulged."

_Oh-!_

"And he used his sports shoes for everyday wear."

_I thought you said he was not athletic._

"No athlete would wear his sports shoes all the time; it ruins them for sports. That didn't own casual shoes said he was poor. He could have worn his dress shoes; you can make worn dress shoes look like new with a permanent marker, but he chose instead to wear his sports shoes, which said he liked to be comfortable."

_Fascinating!_

"What?"

_How you knew all of that!_

"Oh. Not really. So, Victor's mother drove us to the farm. We pulled in next to a very old fortified manor house: Towers on either side of a hall, all hand quarried stone. I said, 'You live there? How old is it?'

"Victor laughed and said, 'Thirteenth century. This was the manor home to our estate. Now it's mostly a museum, but the part where we live is a bit different from the rest.' It was! The living quarters had been updated: Electricity and water and flush toilets and all.

"Victor and his mother and I had soup and bread for supper; they didn't seem to keep any people, which I thought was odd given that they lived in a manor house. My family's not rich, but we keep Miranda and a cook; although I suppose Miranda is cheap because she's a student."

_All right._

"'All right?'"

_Let's continue with your tale._

"Oh. At dinner, Victor's mother kept smiling at him and stroking his back. Doted on!"

_Ah._

"At the end of the meal, someone with a limp came into the mudroom and took off Wellingtons by the door. When he entered the dining room, I thought he was a hand: An old man, short of money, who worked with animals doing hard manual labor. Also, he had been burnt: A scar covered the entire left half of his face making it stiff like- like-" A pause.

_Like a mask?_

"Like marble: Shiny, sort of, and swirled purple and pink and white. His left eye stared straight ahead, and the left corner of his mouth was folded back toward his ear, which- well, he always wore a cap, but, from what I could see, there wasn't much of an ear left."

_Oh._

"The right side of his face was normal and sunburnt; that, his calloused hands (they were scarred too) and his musculature said he did hard manual labor outdoors. He hadn't shaved in a few days; he was filthy, and he smelled of dirt and sweat and...feces. Animal feces. You know."

_Yes._

"Which showed he worked with animals."

_How did you know about his financial situation?_

"He wore old, patched clothing, and he was an old man doing hard manual labor; he wouldn't have done that unless he had to! The question I had was: Why he was in the house? Then Victor stood and said, 'Sherlock, this is my grandfather, Lord Victor Reginald Scott Trevor Musgrave the third. Grandpa, this is Sherlock Holmes from Tillerman.' I was shocked, but I stood and offered him my hand."

_Well done._

"I thought so. Victor's grandfather smiled with the half of his face that worked, shook my hand and said, 'Good to meet you lad.' Then he turned and said, 'Victor!' And he spread his arms wide and hugged Victor. For quite a long time. Then, 'Oh! It's good to see you, my boy! Vera! The handsome lad is back!' Victor's mother smiled and bobbed her head, and Victor and his grandfather kept hugging! It was a bit weird."

_Ah._

"We went to bed soon after; I was given Victor's trundle. After we had turned off the light, I asked him, 'What happened to your grandpa's face?'"

_Sherlock!_

"What?"

Ian's thumb wavered, but he continued the recording-_A bit abrupt, that._

"Abrupt?"

_Your question._

"Oh. I suppose. Well. Victor said, 'A shell. On D-Day. Grandpa was a lieutenant, and his platoon was caught behind the enemy lines. Out of the whole platoon, only six had survived. They were making their way to safety when they were ambushed by Nazis! They were about to be shot when a shell hit and blew everyone up! Grandpa was buried under all these dead bodies, but he survived and managed to hang on until the Allied medics found him. He was quite damaged.'

"I said, 'Burnt.'

"And he said, 'Yes. He's got that awful scar and lost most of his ear and an eye: That left one is glass; that's why it never moves. But there was more! He didn't talk for years and years afterwards. Shock. And he can't use his right hand, not for writing anyway; he had to learn to do with his left. Do you want to see what he used to look like?' I said I did, and Victor turned on the light and fetched a picture from his dresser: An army photograph of a platoon posing in uniform, dated 1943. Victor pointed out the lieutenant, and that was when-" Another pause.

_When-? When what?_

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

_Sherlock, what was it?_

"Nothing! Just- The soldiers looked like the upper sixth men. About that age."

_Mycroft's age._

"Right. Mycroft and the others. So-Victor put the picture away, turned off the light, got back into bed and said, 'By the time he could talk again, my great grandfather, Lord Musgrave the second, had died; my great grandmother was in care; Grandpa's brother, my great uncle Percy, had been disinherited and was gone, and the estate was nearly lost. They had no tenant farmer then, so Grandpa rolled up his sleeves and got to work: He built the coops and sheep's barn and made this part of the house livable. When my dad grew up, he restored the rest of the manor house and turned the whole of it into the Hurlstone City Farm. It saved the estate. We must get our hands dirty, but it's all right.'"

_Hum!_

"Victor fell asleep soon after, and I thought- I thought for a bit, then I fell asleep as well.

"The next morning, we woke quite early. After we dressed, we went to the kitchen and breakfasted on leftover bread and milk. His mother joined us before we were through; she had been baking somewhere, from the flour on her clothing and face. She wrapped her arms round Victor, kissed his head and said, 'Lovely to see you this morning, darling. Would you boys like eggs?'

"I would have, actually, but Victor said, 'No, Mum, we're fine. Thank you.' before I could answer. After his mother left, he looked at me and said, 'The eggs are for the tourists. It's winter so the hens aren't laying as many; anything we eat is money from our pockets. Shall I show you round?'

"He took me to their shop: Scarves and shawls and things made from their wool. And sheep's milk cheese and eggs and produce, and they had a bakery where Victor's mother was working. They did quite a bit of business: The register was new, but the keys were worn, and there was a complete lack of dust."

_Ah._

"After that, Victor showed me the farm: Fruit trees, vegetable plots, pastures with lots of sheep and a few ponies, an old stable for the ponies round the back; then, in the courtyard next to the house, the sheep barn, and coops with regular laying hens, peacocks and odd chickens: Fluffy ones; ones with poofs and fringes. It was all clean and landscaped with well worn paths and signs to explain what things were.

"As for the manor house, the south tower was collapsing, but the north tower was okay. Everywhere were bits of ancient brick in the ground where the original buildings and surrounding wall had been."

_Sounds interesting._

"After we saw the farm, we spent the next few hours fishing in the lake beyond the pasture. When we came in, there were tourists wandering about; I counted forty-seven. Victor's grandfather was in the kitchen. He said, 'How was the fishing?' We'd left the poles and gear outside, but our sleeves and trouser cuffs were wet, so his deduction wasn't hard. Victor told him we hadn't caught anything, and I asked how the hearing had gone that morning."

_Hearing?_

"He was a magistrate, remember?"

_Yes, I know he was a magistrate. He'd had a hearing?_

"Yes. He said, 'It was awful. Two fifteen year old boys-' Then he stopped and said, 'How did you know I'd had a hearing this morning?'"

_How did you know?_

"Oh. He was wearing his work clothes, but they were clean, meaning he hadn't worked at the farm that morning. Also, he was carefully shaved, suggesting he had gone to a place where his appearance mattered. Since I knew he was a magistrate, the deduction was obvious: He had left early in the morning to attend a hearing, then returned and changed his clothes, intending to work on the farm after lunch."

_Amazing!_

"That's what he said! Well, first he stared at me, even after I was through, and then he shook his head and said, 'Amazing.'

"I told him I liked deductions, and I asked if he had deduced we had gone fishing by our damp cuffs, but he said, 'Damp cuffs? No. Vera told me. What amazing things they teach at your school!'

"I said, 'No.' but he wasn't listening anymore; just gushed on about how fantastic Tillerman was. As if I've ever learned anything useful-" A pause.

_I see._

"Yes. Well. After going on, Victor's grandfather asked, 'Would you boys fancy a bit of work this afternoon? It's been hot. We must start the sheep shearing early this year, and tourists love to see the youth of Britain at work.' Mr. Wharton, have you ever sheared sheep?"

_No._

"It's miserable! Victor and I would drive a sheep into the barn, and his grandfather would fix it to a stake. Then we would hold and turn it while Victor's grandpa sheared it with hand clippers; all the time the tourists gawked at us from stands. The barn was built over the original kitchen, and we were working in the old cooking fire circle, which was fitting: It was dreadfully hot! And it stank, and flies were everywhere! I was kicked; Victor bitten. And! It took all afternoon to do only a third of the flock because of the hand clippers! We were knackered by the end: Ate and bed.

"That night, very late, we were woken by someone slamming things and yelling. We got up and crept out: Another old man, very drunk. His hands shook; his head wobbled; he smelled of pee and whiskey and vomit; his face was red or fish belly white; his eyes were yellow (the whites of his eyes, I mean), and his nose and cheeks and tongue were purple and swollen up. Is all that from drinking too much?"

_Yes._

"Is that what the Blaine men will look like in thirty years?"

_I don't know._

"Hm! Victor's mother came out and told us, 'Go to bed! It's all right!' and started helping him. Victor left right away, but I stayed and watched: He could barely move! Victor's grandfather came behind me and watched as well. When he left, his limp was greater than before."

_Oh, dear._

"After everyone was gone, I went back to Victor's room and asked, 'Who was that old drunk man?'"

_I say-_

"Victor was awake, but he didn't answer at first, just sort of breathed. After a bit, he said, 'I'm sorry you had to see that.'

"I said, 'See what? That he was drunk?'

"He said, 'Yes.'

"And I said, 'You didn't get him drunk, why should you be sorry? Who is he?'

"Victor breathed a bit more before answering, 'My great uncle Percy. The one who was disinherited. It's because of people like him we nearly lost everything! Believe it or not, the Musgraves aren't just gentry, we're proper nobles, with a proper title. At least we were. We had thousands of acres! But we've been out of favor for centuries. Drunk! We've got only the title and this farm, and if it weren't for Grandfather, we would have nothing at all! The new aristocracy: Tourist farmers. It isn't fair.'

"I said, 'If your uncle is disinherited, why is he here?'

"Victor sighed and said, 'My grandfather pities him. When I was little, Great Uncle Percy would come round every so often: Always drunk, always sneering, always fighting with Dad and demanding to see Grandpa and begging for money; he was disinherited because he's a gambler. My dad had wrapped all the money into an ironclad trust to keep it from him: The income is dedicated to my education and the business; hardly any disposable cash. That's why we scrimp as we do. And then, four years ago, my dad died-' Victor stopped talking and breathed again.

"I said, 'Victor! Did your great uncle kill your dad?'"

_Sher-_

"But Victor said, 'Of course not. Dad died of cancer. It's just- I'm not quite accustomed to it.' Not accustomed? How could he not be accustomed after four years?"

A long pause.

"Mr. Wharton?"

An exhale. _Sometimes it takes decades. Sometimes people never adjust to someone being gone._

"Really?" A pause. "Oh. Okay. After he had breathed a bit more- Was he crying, then?"

_Most likely._

"Oh. So after crying a bit more, Victor went on, 'When my dad was gone, Uncle Percy moved in. Here! Into this house! He's gone on benders for months at a time, and then comes back and makes Mum's life a holy hell, and there's not a damned thing I can do about it because Grandpa permits it!'

"That's when it hit me: There was much, much more there than met the eye. It was excellent! Far better than Disneyland!"


	3. Chapter 3

The Brother on My Back

Chapter 3.

Snapping off the recorder, Ian stared in consternation. "Sherlock."

The boy was wide eyed. "What?"

After reaching a bit, Ian settled with: "A bit…unseemly."

The boy's eyes widened further. With a warning glance Ian started the recorder _-Go on with your tale._

"Right. The next morning, Victor's grandpa and mother joined us for breakfast, but no one spoke of the night before. In fact, no one said anything at all. We simply ate and went out to shear.

"It was hot. Again. And there were more tourists and lots more flies and everything still stank! We weren't done until three o'clock that afternoon, and by then, we were sweaty and itchy. Victor's mother said we should swim; Victor had extra shorts."

_Swimming? In February?_

"It was twenty-three outside! Oh- Do you prefer Fahrenheit? Antiquated system, but old people like it. That's seventy-three point four degrees Fahrenheit."

_Now see here-_

"And twenty-eight in the barn. Eighty-two point four Fahrenheit! Certainly hot enough to swim! As we dressed, we heard Victor's grandfather saying, 'Bloody dogs-! Oh, Percy. How bad is it?' They were in the kitchen, but we could hear them."

_All right-_

"Percy mumbled something, and Victor's grandfather said, 'Oh, God. That's bad.' I wanted to listen on, but Victor said we must go, and we crept out the back.

"I asked Victor what was going to happen, and he said, 'Grandpa will save him. He always does, but it's never enough for Uncle Percy. He's horrible.'

_Oh, dear._

"When we were done swimming, we went back in, changed, had dinner, and Victor showed me the north tower and the museum. It was all very old, and quite excellent, especially the tower because you could climb to the top and see so far!

"But when we got to their library, Victor suddenly stopped and shouted, 'What are you doing!' His great uncle Percy had two huge old books opened on the table and was studying a yellowed sheet of paper. Victor shouted again, 'You've got no right!'

"And Percy glared and shouted back, 'I've far more right than you! Control your brat, or I shall control him for you!'"

_What was that?_

"Oh. Victor's grandpa had come behind us. That last bit was for him."

_Oh._

"Victor turned to his grandpa and said, 'He's going to steal them!'

"And Percy threw down the sheet and shouted, 'Now _I'm_ a thief! That's rich! That's hilarious!' He didn't actually mean it was funny, though; he was quite angry."

_I understand._

"Yes. Well, then Victor shouted back, 'Not only a thief, but a drunk and a filthy-'" Sherlock reached for the recorder, pressed the _pause _button, said in a low voice, "'-wanker!'" and solemnly released the pause-

_He must have been furious!_

"He must have! Victor's grandpa put his hands on Victor's shoulders and said, 'Leave us, lad. I'll take care of this.'

"And Victor said, 'Don't let him take our books, Grandpa! Please!' His face was red: He was going to cry. Again."

_I'm sure he was quite upset. What happened next?_

"Well, next, Percy shouted, 'I want an apology! No one speaks to me like that, you snot-nosed-' He was going to say something else, but Victor's grandfather stepped in and and closed the door, shutting us out. Victor went to his bedroom, and I went with him.

"As we were dressing for bed, I asked what his great uncle had been examining.

"He said, 'Our books, obviously. He was assessing them.'

"And I said, 'No. The paper. What was on the paper?'

"Victor didn't answer right away; got into bed. After a bit, he said, 'It's a poem from a ritual the men in my family go through when they came of age. It dates to the sixteenth century.'

"I said, 'That paper was from _this _century.' I could tell, you know. It was old, but the wood pulp-"

_I believe you. Go on, then. What did Victor say?_

"Right. Victor said, 'Of course it had been recopied. What difference does it make?'

"So I said, 'Why was he looking at it?'

"And he said, 'How should I know, Sherlock? I'd rather not discuss it.' And he turned his back."

_Oh._

"I waited until he was asleep; it took a long time. By then, the house was quiet. I crept to the library and got inside. The books and paper Percy had been examining were still on the table: One of the books was a collection of maps and drawings of the manor estate over the centuries; the other was a bible from 1503, according to the front page. On the back of that page was a poem written in quill; on the paper was an exact copy of that in ballpoint pen, so I knew it had been copied after 1945, when those pens were available to the public. You see, the ink in ballpoints is formulated to run in low gravity situations, so during the second world war, the Royal Air Force had-"

_Sherlock._

"What?"

_On topic, please._

"Oh. Right. Where was I?"

_The the poem had been copied after 1945._

"Yes. But not long after: The paper was yellowed and crumbly, which occurs when-"

_What about the poem?_

"Oh. It was like a sonnet but had only eight lines."

_An octave._

"Oc- Right. Would you like to hear it? The poem, I mean."

_Yes._

"Okay. It was dated 1582 and titled: The Musgrave Ritual.

'On this the freshest morn of wisdom's age

When fiery sun doth breach oppressive night

Cause reb'lous tower mark triumphant stage

And rise in wealth and riches, honor bright

Then stand thou sons of Musgrave's ancestry

And east of hellish pit and down and down

To mighty power and excellent degree

And lamb-like purpose lost and purpose found.'"

_You memorized it?_

"I suppose. I read it three or four times."

_Oh._

"At first, I thought it was just the usual gibberish, but some lines caught my attention; there had to be a reason why Percy was intrigued."

_Gibberish?_

A sigh. "Metaphors and allegories. Why could these poets not have simply said what they meant and been done with it!"

_Ah._

"Quite stupid, really."

_I say, now-_

"I couldn't decipher it, so I went back to bed. The next morning, all was quiet again at breakfast; Percy was nowhere to be seen. Because it was Monday, the farm was closed. Victor's mother drove me to Tillerman, and I resat my chemistry assessment."

Ian pressed the _stop _button and regarded the boy gravely. "And how was that?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Fine, of course. Too easy, really. So-"

"So the organic chemistry exam really _wasn't_ fine?" Leaning forward, "I find myself wondering why you didn't give it your name. Weren't you trying to make a point? That you could catch your brother?"

"It was all right-"

"Sherlock! Were you helping someone cheat? The truth, now!"

"I wasn't!" Sherlock dropped his gaze and spoke in a low voice, "Just- Wasn't quite as sure as about it I thought I would be. The exam, I mean. Mycroft was perfect, but I-" He was quiet.

Ian peered closely: The boy was avoiding Ian's eye; his face as blank as a board. Vexed, Ian gave another warning glance, said, "I see," and pressed the _record _button- _Let's continue._

"Right. When Victor's mother brought me home, she said, 'Sherlock, it has been so good to have you.' So I asked if I might visit again, and she said I might, which was good, because I intended to."

_You-_

"At home, Miranda was adding a can of water to tinned soup on the stove, and I said, 'Cook always adds milk.'

"And Miranda said, 'Ah, and were she here, she undoubtedly would. But Mrs. Danielson, your cook, is on holiday. The entire week. Also, we are out of milk.'

"I said, 'No milk!'

"And she sighed and said, 'Hello Miranda. I'm back from resitting my exam. How are you? Well, I'm fine, Sherlock. Thank you very much! Not quite as fine as I would be sitting on a sunny beach in Los Angeles, or attending an important international conference, but look! Tinned soup! And I can make it with water! Life can't be too terrible.' She does that sometimes: Makes both sides of a conversation. It's a bit weird."

_Hm._

"I said, 'It's sunny here. Hot, actually.'

"And she said, 'That's true. And yet there is no beach, no sand, no large crashing waves, no beautiful people wearing very little clothing.'

"And I said, 'What about Richard?'"

_And who is Richard?_

"Her boyfriend."

_Ah._

"And she smiled and said, 'Richard! Thank you for reminding me, Sherlock. Now where _is_ Richard? Oh, yes! Richard is in-Wait for it-Los Angeles! Making important connections at the conference, and mingling with the beautiful people! The ones wearing very little clothing. We were to spend Valentine's day-that's in two days, by the way-together. In Los Angeles. Instead, he is there, and I am here. With tinned soup. Oh, gosh, Miranda! I am so, so sorry! It didn't occur to me to think of others when I chose to do what I did. That "thinking of others" bit! It _always_ escapes me.'

"I said, 'I wasn't allowed to go either!'

"And she said, 'Yes. Completely eludes. But please! Do forgive me, Miranda. I must make it up to you. What shall I do? Perhaps I could-'

"So then I asked when Mycroft had bolted."

_Bolted?_

"Yes."

_Mycroft had bolted?_

"Well it seemed he had. There were loads of clues. The newspapers, for instance."

_Newspapers?_

"There was a stack of them by the door, untouched."

_I don't follow._

"Oh- We take seven newspapers from around the world, and Mycroft pours over each one every morning. He's a bit mad about it: Once, when there was a strike, three of them weren't delivered, and he absolutely freaked out! I thought Mummy was going to slap him! Untouched papers meant Mycroft wasn't there to devour them."

_Oh._

"Right. Then, the biscuits: Mycroft consumes two entire boxes each day, so, of course, Miranda would have put in a nine day supply Friday night: The week plus the weekend. Eighteen unopened boxes were on the kitchen counter."

_Really! Two entire-_

"And the floor: There were crumbs and bits of hair gathered in the corners. Mycroft would never have stood for that, would have insisted Miranda get it up. It was glaringly obvious. Mycroft was gone."

_Your observations and deductions, Sherlock! Quite-_

"But Miranda shook her head, and said, 'No, Mycroft has been holed up in his room since we returned from Tillerman Friday evening. Each time I've knocked, I've been told to, "Go away." Actually, I was growing a bit- Oh! Talk of the devil!'

"Mycroft had appeared, you see, wearing the same clothing he was in on Friday, smelling horribly and holding an airmail letter. He said, 'Miranda- Oh. Hello, Sherlock.' That last bit was to me."

_I understand._

"Yes. So, Mycroft said, 'Post this.' He handed Miranda the letter, collected the stack of newspapers and six of the biscuit boxes and returned to his room.

"I told Miranda I was going to the library that afternoon and could post the letter, but she said she would do it when she fetched the milk, so I- So- Oh." Long pause. "So, yesterday- Wednesday, that was yesterday, right?"

_Yes._

"So Wednesday, I told Mycroft about the poem."

_Wait. What happened Monday and Tuesday? _

"Not much."

_Sherlock. This- _Ian snapped off the mini recorder and regarded the boy sternly. "Again, this must be a complete record. Miranda told me you were gone on your bicycle most of Monday and Tuesday, and Wednesday as well! What were you doing?"

"Just- A project." Sherlock shifted in his seat. "The important bit is this: Wednesday, I told Mycroft about the poem and he-"

"Your project?" insisted Ian.

The boy's eyes dropped. "I can't," he muttered. "I made a promise."

"To whom?"

"To Victor's grandfather." Sherlock looked up defiantly and declared, "He didn't make me; I promised by myself. I swore I would carry the secret to the grave."

Ian felt himself relax a tiny bit. "Ah. Well, I don't know if this makes a difference, but the elder Mr. Musgrave passed away this afternoon. Heart attack. Mrs. Musgrave informed me when she rang here, looking for you, actually-"

"Heart attack? No." Sherlock shook his head. "That's wrong. He'd had a stroke."

Unclenching his jaw, Ian clarified, "The heart attack was a complication from the stroke."

"Oh." The boy seemed taken aback.

"I'm sorry. I know it must come as a-"

"Is he burnt?"

"Burnt?" managed Ian. "He'd had a scar-"

"No," asserted Sherlock. "I meant his entire body. Did they burn up his entire body? After he died?"

"Do you mean, 'Was he cremated?'"

"Yes. Cremated." The boy nodded quickly. "Was he?"

Ian frowned, "Well, strange that you should mention it, but Vera Musgrave did say her father in law had specifically requested that upon his death, his body was to be disposed of by cremation immediately. They had made arrangements long ago. If it hasn't happened all ready, it is happening as we speak."

"Oh! Good!" Sherlock came very close to smiling. "The evidence is gone. All right, then! I can tell you." He gestured at the mini-recorder and ordered, "Turn it back on."

Holding his tongue with a very great effort, Ian complied- _It's recording._

"You see, when Victor had mentioned that his grandfather didn't speak and didn't write with his right hand after the war, it struck me as odd, especially the bit about his right hand, because the burn was primarily on his left side, and he did everything else with his right hand: Eat, clip sheep, pour tea; he was basically a right handed man who was choosing to write with his left hand."

_Oh?_

"I hadn't understood it, until Victor showed me the army picture: The man he pointed out as Victor Reginald Scott Trevor Musgrave the third was not the man I had been introduced to that night."

_What!_

"Everything was off: The distances between the eyes and between the eyes and the nose; the shape of the chin and jaw; the width of the forehead-"

_You said he had a terrible scar!_

"He did, but that didn't change the shape of his skull; at least not enough to account for the differences. The men were similar; with the scar, it was enough to fool everyone else, but not me."

_I see._

"Of course I was curious. When Mycroft is trying to understand human behavior, he does a thing where he pretends to be another person and looks at the world from that point of view, knowing only what that person knows and making choices as that person would make them. So, that night, after Victor had showed me the picture, that's what I did. I thought: Okay, I am an impostor; if I am to convince everyone I am Victor Musgrave, I must disguise the things that are different: I will write with my non-dominant hand to explain differences in handwriting; I won't talk for a long time because- because I speak differently than Victor Musgrave, and I must learn his accent! Okay, so now I knew the impostor was from a different, most likely lower, class and began life as a right handed person."

_Who was he?_

"A working class, right handed person with similar height, build and coloring as Victor Musgrave, who knew a good deal about farming and was fairly intelligent."

_Intelligent?_

"He was a successful impostor! People who had known Victor Musgrave all their lives were taken in. That takes brains! I meant to suss out who he was. I had Victor's army picture-"

_You told Victor of this?_

"No."

_But he had lent you his army picture?_

"Well- I had borrowed it. I wanted a picture of the scarred impostor to make a thorough comparison, so Monday, after I left Miranda, I biked to the library, and I looked up the date he was appointed magistrate, and then I found the local papers around that date in the archives. I got to use the microfiche machine! Did you know you can take a photocopy right from that machine?"

_You had borrowed- Yes. Yes, I did._

"It was excellent! I searched until I found a good picture, and I took a photocopy. Then, I used the normal photocopy machine and blew up and shrank the pictures until they were nearly identical in size, took them home, borrowed Daddy's calipers and spent the rest of the night comparing the relative distances of the facial features. By the time Mycroft woke me the next day, I was certain: Victor's grandfather was not the man he claimed to be! And! I knew who he was."

_Who was he?_

"The platoon sergeant. Standing behind and to the left of the true Victor Musgrave."


	4. Chapter 4

The Brother on My Back

Chapter 4.

_Who was this sergeant?_

"I didn't know, then. When I woke, Mycroft was standing next to me, comparing the photocopies. He said, 'They're not quite congruent.'

"And I said, 'They're close enough. Do you know who he is?'

"He said, 'Sergeant turned magistrate. What of it?'"

_Mycroft could see it?_

"It was a bit more obvious when you had the photos before you, but, yes. Mycroft is like me."

_Oh._

"I pointed out the actual Vincent Musgrave the third and explained everything, and Mycroft listened. To all of it. At the end, he told me I had best identify the impostor, and what he was playing at. Then he left.

"I returned to the library for the platoon roster, but that was no good; the lady said I wanted military service records, and those were in the National Archives. So I had to bike there."

_That's quite a distance!_

"Seventeen point three kilometers from the library. Let's see: In imperial units, that's ten point seven miles."

_Thank you for the conversion, Sherlock, but, really, I-_

"It was late when I arrived; at first they wouldn't give me the time of day, but I told them my grandfather, a veteran, was dying, and a fire had burnt all of his records and letters; only one photograph remained (I showed it to them), and I wanted to find the members of his platoon, so I could inform them. That he was dying. Dying! And the lady at the archives said in order to see the records I must be at least sixteen, and I was obviously not sixteen. Moreover, it was nearly closing; I should return tomorrow with my mother. So I started to cry."

_You what?_

"Started to cry. And then more of them gathered round-"

_Wait. You just- Began to cry?_

"Yes. It's not hard. People will tell you to look at a bright light or use menthol, but that's rubbish. What you do is spread apart the muscles in the back of your throat, and then tense your face, especially round your eyes-the lachrymal glands are under your upper eyelids-and blink to spread the tears; you'll look like you're trying not to cry, but that's all right."

_Oh. _A pause. _Why not just think of something sad?_

"Too distracting."

_How on earth did you discover this- _Ian remembered himself and clicked off the mini recorder "-this- skill?"

"Oh-" The boy looked thoughtful. "Mycroft and I- We were playing 'Stone Face.' Do you know that game?"

"No."

"One person pinches or punches the other as hard as he can, and the other tries to keep a stone face. The puncher gets points by making the other flinch or cry. I had always won, and then suddenly Mycroft started winning, which was fairly amazing: I pinch hard! After crowing a bit, he told me about the glottis."

Weakly, "Glottis?"

"The muscle in your throat," replied Sherlock. "To prevent crying, you have to close the glottis by lifting or dropping your chin, relax your face and keep from blinking. In the process of learning that, we discovered how to make the thing happen, which proved even more useful."

"I see." Ian straightened. "That's how you draw sympathy, is it?"

Sherlock frowned. "'Draw- What?'"

"To escape punishment, perhaps? Or to get something?" Fixing the boy with an unyielding stare, "Like at the National Archives? You put in performances like that for your parents on a regular basis, do you?"

"Mummy and Daddy? No!" The boy shook his head vigorously and exclaimed, "Oh, no- We'd be locked in a closet. Once, Mycroft was locked in for six hours. They don't tolerate that sort of nonsense!"

"Oh." A chill.

"The only problem is once you start, it's hard to stop, but at the archives- Are you recording?"

Unsettled, Ian pressed the _record _button -_Go ahead_.

"At the archives, that was quite helpful, actually. I began bawling and said my mother was dead from consumption, and my father had been exposed to ebola and was under quarantine, and I was their last and only hope. By then, four little old ladies and two little old men were gathered round me, and they patted me on the head and said it was highly irregular, but they would give me the information tomorrow, provided I returned with identification, a note from my father and a phone number where they could ring him. I pointed out that tomorrow, none of them would be on shift, so it would be all for naught! And they looked at each other, and one of the little old ladies said she would make a special trip in for me. I was to ask for her: Edna Chutney. So that was good. I biked home and fixed it with Mycroft, and the next day, Wednesday, I biked out again and found Edna, and she showed me the platoon roster-"

_Hang on. What about the identification?_

"Identification?"

_They told you to bring identification._

"Oh. Daddy had some things in his office. It wasn't hard. Mycroft helped."

_I see._

"Right. So Edna showed me the platoon roster, and, sure enough, the sergeant, James Armitage, was from the same district as Victor Musgrave and had joined at about the same time. So I biked back to the library and looked up the newspapers for the time they joined- Got to use the microfiche machine again! And I found him! There was an article in 1942 about the local boys going off to war: James Armitage's father was Charles Armitage, the tenant farmer at The Hurlstone Manor! James had grown up with Victor and Percy Musgrave!"

_Oh!_

"I biked home, and when I got there, it was tea time, and Mycroft was on his third cake. He always has four cakes, the chocolate marshmallow ones, and four cups of tea, supersaturated with sugar. I told him what I'd learned. That we must notify the police!

"But Mycroft wiped his mouth and said, 'Don't be daft.'

"And I said, 'Well, he's stolen-'

"But Mycroft interrupted. He said, 'Stolen what?'

"And I said, 'The title! The land!'

"And Mycroft said, 'Really. And what was all that worth, exactly?' Of course, I didn't know, so he said, 'Stealing something worthless isn't really stealing.'

"But I said, 'It _is_ worth something! They've got a successful business!'

"And he said, 'Only because someone other than a Musgrave has taken it over. The last remaining biological Musgrave would drink and gamble it away if he could. Think it through, Sherlock: Your impostor has turned a dying estate into a success, and cared for a bounder who should have been thrown out on his ear long ago.'

"I said, 'He probably had to do, or Percy would have exposed his secret.'

"And Mycroft said, 'Ah. So Percy is not only a drunk and a wastrel but a blackmailer as well. Lovely.'

"Well, when he put it like that, it seemed James Armitage had done everyone a favor and was a victim of sorts, yet that couldn't be right!

"Mycroft went on, saying, 'If you want to ring the police, by all means, ring the police. Shout to the world how clever you think you are, but don't pretend it has anything to do with justice.'

"At that, I leapt up, and I shouted, 'Murder is a crime! We cannot allow someone to get away with murder!'

"But Mycroft said, 'Do you know for certain that James Armitage murdered Victor Musgrave?" And before I said anything, he said, "Of course you do not.'

"And I said, 'Well how was the change made, then?'

"And he said, 'You're the clever one, you tell me.'

"I thought some more, and I said, 'They went to war as themselves. They have similar coloring and height, but otherwise, they don't look alike. So, during the course of the conflict, something- The shell! The man who went to hospital burnt and wrapped in bandages must have been James Armitage!'

"And Mycroft said, 'Yes. And he was mistaken for Victor Musgrave.'

"And I said, 'But how would he have been mistaken for Victor Musgrave? He would have been wearing-' and then I shut up because I had got it, but Mycroft had got it too, of course.

"He said, 'Ah, little Sherlock and his amazing little brain! Yes. James Armitage must have been wearing Victor Musgrave's uniform when the shell hit.'

"And I said, 'Well, how had _that _come about? People in the military don't switch uniforms!'

"And Mycroft answered, 'No, they do not. How it came about is what you must determine before you scream murder.' And he stuffed the rest of the third cake in his mouth.

"I thought about it: The only person who knew what had happened was James Armitage, and he wouldn't tell me without good reason. Then, I thought: That poem! I could solve it! Find out why Percy was so interested! James Armitage would be grateful and would reveal all!

"Mycroft was licking the sugar from the bottom of his cup, and I told him about the fight in the library and recited the poem, and then I asked, 'What do you think it means?'

"And he said, 'Which part?'

"And I said, 'The whole of it.'

"And he said, 'Small things confuse small minds.' I understood _that_."

_It wasn't kind. Or true for that matter._

"Well, I _was_ confused. He'd got it wrong, though; Mummy says it. It's, 'Small things _amuse_ small minds.'"

_You don't have a small mind, Sherlock._

"Well. Then Mycroft said, 'It's simply a rallying cry. In 1582, Elizabeth was queen, the war with Spain was about to begin, and already there had been rebellions designed to put her cousin, Mary, Queen of Scots, on the throne, so everyone-'

"And then I- I guess I interrupted him, didn't I? He was going on! I said, 'Rebellions! What rebellions?'

"And he said, 'Don't you know? The Gunpowder Plot. The Northern Uprising. The Throckmorton Plot, in 1583, brought about the downfall of-'

"And I interrupted _again!_ I said, 'Northern Uprising! This isn't a metaphor at all!' and I took a sheet of paper, and I drew a diagram of the farm and put an X- 'The reb'lous tower is the northern tower! The fiery sun would cause the northern tower to mark a triumphant stage! What would be a "triumphant stage"?'"

_Sherlock, could I trouble you to recite the poem again? Refresh my memory?_

"Oh. Sure.

'On this the freshest morn of wisdom's age

When fiery sun doth breach oppressive night

Cause reb'lous tower mark triumphant stage'

That's the line we were talking about."

_I understand._

"Right.

'And rise in wealth and riches, honor bright

Then stand thou sons of Musgrave's ancestry

And east of hellish pit and down and down

To mighty power and excellent degree

And lamb-like purpose lost and purpose found.'"

_Thank you._

"Yes. Well, Mycroft stared at my diagram, and said, 'You're wrong, Sherlock. It's just an allegory. Preparing them to be triumphant.'

"And I said, 'But suppose it _was _an actual thing. What could it be? And how could the sun mark it?'

"He said, 'That's not what the poem says. It says the sun would cause the _tower _to mark the triumphant stage.'

"And I said, 'The shadow! The sun would cause the tower to make a shadow! The _shadow _would mark the thing!'

"And Mycroft said, 'All right. A shadow.'

"And I said, 'But where the shadow would fall would depend on the time of day and time of year.' And I soon as I said it, I wanted to take it back, because we knew the time of day. But Mycroft was before me, again.

"He said, '"When fiery sun doth breach oppressive night." Daybreak.'

"So I said, 'But those boys would be born any time of year.'

"And he laughed and said, 'Oh, you think this ceremony took place on the boys' birthdays?' And I was quiet because I did think that. And Mycroft said, 'They would have their little dawn ceremony, then nip out for cake with pink icing?' and he laughed and laughed. When he finally knocked off, he said, 'Elizabethans didn't celebrate actual birthdays, idiot. A ceremony like this would have taken place on New Year's, the year the boy turned twenty-one. You really are rubbish at history, aren't you.'

"I said, 'Okay. So New Year's would have been around winter solstice when the sun rose in the north east quadrant-'

"But he interrupted again and said, '_South_ east quadrant! You're rubbish at astronomy too. You're sort of rubbish all over, really: Britain maintained March 25 as New Year's Day until the eighteenth century. You're looking for the spring equinox, when the sun would rise due east making a shadow to the west of the tower.' And he looked at my diagram and said, 'You didn't draw any other buildings. What was directly west of the north tower?'

"I never answered. First of all because I had realized exactly _which_ building held the triumphant stage, and where it was _in_ that building, and I wasn't sure I wanted to tell Mycroft at all! And also, right then, Miranda came in with the cordless phone and said, 'Mycroft. Your father wants a word.'


	5. Chapter 5

The Brother on My Back

Chapter 5.

"So Mycroft took the phone and said, 'Yes, sir.' and 'Yes.' and 'Yes, sir.' again. And then he was quiet for a long time, looking quite ill, and then he said, 'No.' and 'No. Can't.' And then he was shaking his head, and his face was white, and he dropped the cordless and ran from the room.

"So I picked it up, and I said, 'Daddy! Dad! Guess what!'

"And Daddy said, 'Sherlock? Is that you?'

"And I said, 'Yes, it's me! I'm solving a mystery!'

"And he said, '"It is I," Sherlock, not, "It's me." Where is Mycroft?'

"I said, 'He ran off. Daddy, we found an impostor! He may have murdered someone!'

"He said, 'Mycroft will be coming here a bit sooner than anticipated. Is Miranda there?'

"And I said, 'Coming where? To Moscow?'

"And he said, 'Put Miranda on. Immediately.' So I found Miranda in the kitchen, and I gave her the cordless. Then I heard noises from the toilet: Mycroft was vomiting. When he was done with that, he started to yell and to kick the door."

_Oh, dear._

"Was it the letter he had Miranda post?"

_Yes. -_Ian pressed _stop _and took a breath. "The letter was a forgery Mycroft had written and signed as Master Resnik, the Russian Master at Tillerman. It was posted to the Soviet head of your father's department and said that although your father had high hopes, Russian was proving too complex for Mycroft; he wouldn't master it in time to be of any use. It strongly recommended against bringing him to the Soviet Union. The letter was written in perfect, sophisticated Russian, complete with jokes and idioms; it would have worked except that your father had told no one at Tillerman of his plans. Apparently, he had led Mycroft to believe otherwise."

"Oh."

Again, Sherlock's face betrayed no trace of emotion. Watching him, Ian was struck by how terribly thin he was: Painfully thin, almost emaciated. At once, Ian couldn't bear to see him any longer and glanced away, commenting, "Your brother has quite a gift."

"Yes."

"When it came out that Mycroft had written the letter, your father's department head insisted he be brought to Moscow immediately. He was obviously fluent; there was no need to wait."

"Except that Mycroft didn't want to go." Something in Sherlock's tone caused Ian to look up: The boy had fixed him with a level gaze.

"No. He didn't. Not then." Dropping his eyes again, Ian turned on the recorder- _So. What did you do? At the house._

A pause. "I left. Mycroft was shouting and throwing things; it was only going to get worse. I packed my satchel and biked to Victor's farm. It was late when I arrived-"

_Another long trek._

"Yes. Fourteen point six kilometers or nine miles. It was dark when I arrived, and Victor's grandfather was finishing the evening chores. When he saw me, he said, 'You're back!'

"I said, 'Yes, sir. I wanted to tell you something.'

"And he said, 'You came all this way on your bicycle to tell me something?'

"And I said, 'Yes.'

"And he said, 'Alright, lad. Out with it, then.'

"I said, 'I know the secret of the poem: The Musgrave Ritual! I know why Percy was looking at it. I'll tell you the secret, but first, you must tell me something.'

"And he said, 'What's that?'

"I said, 'How is it you came to be wearing Victor Musgave's uniform?'

"He stopped. And got really still. And stared at me, not smiling. So I explained, 'Back at the end of the war. When the Nazis captured you and-' but then I stopped, because now he was leaning against the chicken coop and breathing hard. I said, 'Sir?' but he only waved at me. His false eye was wide open, of course, but his other was closed.

"At last, he coughed and said, 'Let's go inside.'"

_And you went in?_

"Yes. Someone was watching telly in the den, but otherwise, the house was quiet and dark. We went to the library. Percy had been there recently: The bible was open, the poem missing, and the air smelled of whiskey."

Ian pressed the _stop _button. "Sherlock, I'm not sure going in with him was wise."

"Why not?"

_"_You were alone, and he was upset. He might have-" Ian paused, searching for the proper words.

Sherlock frowned. "He might have what?"

Oh, he was so very thin! And, somehow, soft and unsteady as well; Ian felt suddenly terribly sad. He conceded, "Ah, he didn't, apparently," and pressed the _record_ button-_ What happened?_

"He sat and sort of sighed for a while, and then asked, 'How did you know?'

"I explained the evidence I had. I told him I would keep it to myself, but I wanted to know how it had happened. I had Daddy's mini recorder, the one we're using right now, in my pocket; if he confessed, I would have- I would have a confession!"

_Did he?_

"Well, you have what he said: It's on the first part of the tape."

_Oh. Oh it is! It's there. I could listen to it._

"Yes, you could. Shall I go over it? Paraphrase?"

_Yes. Please do._

"Mr. Armitage said nothing, at first. Just sat with his head in his hands. So I told him about the poem, gave the history and all, and I told him where the triumphant stage was, and I even offered to help him find it, but he stayed quiet. When I had nothing more to say, I waited.

"After a long time, he shook his head and said, 'James Armitage. I wish to God I could be him again.' Then he looked at me and said, 'You were right: I was raised on the manor with the Musgrave boys; Dad and I lived above the pony barn. What you didn't know was that my father was the best of men: The kindest, wisest- My mother died in childbirth, so he was everything to me. I can't even claim his name.'

"I asked again, 'How had you come to be wearing Victor's uniform?'

"Mr. Armitage sighed again and said, 'Victor asked me to. On D-Day, we were in the third infantry division: Invaded at Sword beach. That morning, our battalions gained the head quickly and pressed in, but as the day wore on, the Germans countered. Victor was platoon commander; he was brave and clever in his own way, but leading men didn't come easily to him. He-' Mr. Armitage sighed once more '-He grew confused. Took us in the wrong direction. Our platoon was cut off: Trapped behind enemy lines and taking heavy fire. We lost many men, and more of them deserted: They didn't trust Victor, you see. The eating and smoking. That made them uncertain.'"

_Eating and smoking?_

"Mr. Armitage said the squad leaders were not to eat or sleep or smoke unless the troops had had a chance to do it. The sergeants shouldn't until the squad leaders had; the platoon leaders shouldn't before the sergeants and so on. It was a way of taking care; it showed the troops you valued them above yourself. James Armitage always waited for his squad leaders and insisted they wait for their troops. But Victor Musgrave, the real Victor Musgrave, didn't: He ate or smoked or slept whenever he could, and he didn't care who knew it. That was why they didn't trust him. Why they deserted."

_I see._

"So Mr. Armitage said, 'After it was clear we were hopelessly lost, Victor panicked. He was sure the Germans would target him: Pick off the officer to disrupt the chain of command. He ordered me to change uniforms with him. We told the men he was still in charge, but they could see what was up, and many more deserted after that.'"

_Oh. Oh, dear._

"I asked him why Victor chose him rather than a lower ranking man, and Mr. Armitage shrugged and said, 'That was how it was with us. Our family had leased the manor land for generations; the saying round here was, "Where there is a Musgrave puking, there is an Armitage with a mop." Victor would put his horse away hot; Dad and I would walk it cool. Percy would come in drunk, and we would walk him too. Dad said it was part of the tenancy: The unwritten part. It was natural that Victor would turn to me.'"

_Oh._

"The rest of the story happened just as Victor, the fifth Victor, said it did, with the Nazis and the shell and all. Mr. Armitage said, 'When I woke, I was in a field hospital, bound head to toe with bandages; thirty percent of my skin burnt away. I couldn't speak. They called me "Lieutenant Musgrave" and told me I was the sole survivor of the platoon. All those men. All my men.'"

_Poor man._

"'When I could be moved, I was sent home to recover with old Mr. Musgrave. As soon as I could, I told him who I was and what had happened. He told me my own father had passed away from the shock of learning I was dead. Percy had gone off gambling, so Mr. Musgrave had disinherited him to prevent the estate from being responsible for his debts. And Mrs. Musgrave had taken sick; drink, really. We had both lost all.'"

_Ah._

"'Mr. Musgrave insisted I continue to be Victor; he couldn't bear to lose the estate as well. I was not to speak until I could speak as Victor did; I was to write with my left hand. I agreed, of course. I wasn't in a position to refuse, and, honestly, it's what Dad would have wanted. As for that poem, Mr. Musgrave wrote it out so I could learn it; he said it was the legacy inherited by all Musgraves, but I don't think he believed there was anything more to it. If he did, he didn't tell me.

"'Thirteen years went by. The elder Musgraves had passed; I had got the farm profitable and modernized these rooms; Gwendolyn and I were married; my son, Victor Musgrave the fourth, was seven, and I had just been appointed magistrate. No one had ever guessed I was anyone other than Lord Victor Reginald Scott Trevor Musgrave the third. And then Percy reappeared.'"

_Oh, dear._

"'He was as drunk as he had always been, pounding on the door and cursing. I took him in, gave him a bed, and in the morning, I confessed to him. Do you know what he did?'

"I told him I didn't, and Mr. Armitage said, 'He laughed. Rolled his head and laughed and shook, until tears poured down his cheeks.

''"Victor dead!" he said. "And you've taken his place! Wonderful!" I asked him what he wanted to do. Even disinherited, he was he last surviving Musgrave; surely the courts would grant him back his estate! But he shook his head. "They won't, of course." He was giggling! "They love a villain and prefer the fantasy: Crippled noble slaving away at the soil to restore his family's honor! God! I believe I prefer it as well! You shall stay, James. And take care of things."

"'For the next fourteen years, he siphoned away the profits of the farm, wasting it on drink and wagers. He never took enough to break us, allowed me to educate Victor, and did his carousing away from here for he knew if he found himself before me in court, I would have no choice but to deal with him fairly, and then everyone's goose would be cooked.

"'We danced this dance until my son came of age and took over the estate finances. When he realized how much was going to Percy, he put an end to it: Created a trust, every penny carefully meted out. He restored the house as a museum and created the tourist business, which increased our income tenfold. Percy slunk away. He could have exposed me then, but he knew that would have scuttled any opportunity he had. I gave him what I could, but it wasn't much. When he was truly desperate, and especially after Gwen and my Victor had died, Percy would take things and sell them. Family things: Some plate. A tea service. Books. Nothing terribly obvious, but when I realized what was happening, I locked away the most precious; there's nothing left for him. He dare not take these books. You say there may be something to that poem. Alright. But I must admit: To me, it seems a fairy tale.'

"Then Mr. Armitage looked at me and said, 'There you have it, young man. You and Percy are the only ones who know the truth. What are you going to do?'

"I told him I had just wanted to make sure he hadn't murdered anyone. I know how to keep a secret, and I would keep his secret to the grave (I meant his grave). I asked if we might look into the poem's 'triumphant stage' tomorrow, in case there _was_ something to it. He said Victor and I might.

"By then, it was quite late, and everyone was in bed. Rather than disturb them, Mr. Armitage set me up on the library couch with a blanket, and there I slept until I was woken by Victor's mother. She was shouting, 'Victor! Victor! It's Grandpa! Oh, God! It's Grandpa!'"


	6. Chapter 6

The Brother on My Back

Chapter 6.

_What had happened!_

"I didn't know. It was early, and I ran to the kitchen where Victor and his mother were. They were shocked to see me, of course, but there was no time to explain, and besides, they weren't listening, only shouting: Victor's grandfather had fallen and wasn't moving. Victor's mother rang 999 on the kitchen telephone and dashed away. We followed: Straight to the sheep barn."

_The sheep barn?_

"Yes! Built on the site of the old kitchen, due west of the north tower! And it contained a 'hellish pit': The cooking circle! Had you guessed?"

_No._

"Mycroft hadn't either! When we got there, Victor's mother told us his grandpa always stopped in the bakery before his chores. When he hadn't that morning, she searched round the farm. There, in the sheep's barn, the trapdoor to the underground storage room was open! The poem said, 'East of hellish pit and down and down.' The storage room was east of the cooking pit! And 'down!'"

_Ah!_

"We gathered round the storage room opening and looked in with the torch Victor's mother had brought: Mr. Armitage was facedown on the floor! In his hand was a rope tied to a short piece of timber, and near him sat a dim battery lantern. There was no ladder, so Victor's mother guessed he must have been trying to go into the storage room and had fallen, but I pointed out he wouldn't have used a rope: He had known where the ladders were! And the floor of the storage room was made of flagstone and was about three meters- Nine feet eight inches -from the opening: Had he fallen, the lantern would have broken! That hypothesis was absolutely absurd!

"Victor and his mother stared. Finally, she suggested we find a ladder.

"The stepladder kept in the sheep barn was missing, so Victor and I went to the pony barn to fetch the loft one. On the way there, I explained about the poem, but I don't think Victor was listening; he kept biting his nails."

_Oh._

"We brought the ladder to Victor's mother, and she went down and called that his grandpa was alive, but he had had some sort of attack. He was mumbling: Asking for Percy.

"Victor said, 'Uncle Percy! Why would he want Uncle Percy?'

"And his mother said, 'I don't know, Victor. Go and fetch him, will you?'

"Victor made a face and left for the house, and I went with him. Percy was gone. He hadn't slept in his bed, but all of his things were there, including an open bottle of whiskey: He hadn't bolted.

"By the time we'd got back, the ambulance had arrived, and the paramedics were in the storage room, fixing Mr. Armitage to a stretcher. Victor insisted on going to the hospital; his mother said I should get myself home, and off they went.

"Alone, I sat at the edge of the trapdoor opening, kicking my legs and thinking: How had he got down there, Mr. Armitage? He must have used a ladder, but where was it? And why had he gone at all? He knew about the poem, but, he hadn't seemed interested. And where was Percy?

"I had to do it again: Pretend to be Mr. Armitage. Okay. So-I was Mr. Armitage. And I had just been told that there might be something quite valuable in my sheep barn, but I don't believe it, not really. Would I seek it out in the middle of the night? Of course not. But Percy would! Ah! I must to pretend to be Percy!"

_You, Sherlock._

"What?"

_You, Sherlock, must pretend to be Mr. Percy Musgrave._

"Yes. Right. So, now I, Sherlock, was Percy: I'm drunk, sort of. I need money badly, but the man whom I have bled dry over the years has little to give; in fact, he has hidden my own family treasures from me. There is a poem that may save me, but I can't understand it. I was examining it again in the library, when I heard James Armitage come in the house with someone- That was me! Sherlock! I was, 'Someone!'"

_Of course._

"Yes. Right. So. The last time I-I'm Percy again-The last time I was caught looking at the books, there was a dreadful row, so I snatch up the poem, and I get out of sight; perhaps in the hallway, but not too far, because I'm _listening_. And the stranger- That's- Right- _Gives the secret of the poem! _He tells _exactly _where the treasure is!"

_He's rather clever, this stranger._

"Oh-! Yes! He- He is! Must be! Okay. So I, Percy, sneak out to get it. The treasure, I mean. I go to the sheep barn, find the trap door, use the stepladder, go down and-

"Ah. So then I was stuck. Me-I'm being myself, Sherlock, again. What did Percy find in the storage room? There was only one way to know.

"I took the torch Victor's mother had left behind and descended. Not much was down there: Broken staves, bits of timber, the rope Mr. Armitage had been holding, the dead lantern and dust- The dust was still flying about, actually. And footprints! Everywhere! The medics and Victor's mother and everyone, smearing away the evidence of what had happened, but there _was_ something interesting: In the corner farthest from the trapdoor was the sheep barn broom and a jemmy- Well, bigger than a jemmy, more like a crowbar. It was the one kept in the toolshed on the other side of the house! Someone, presumably Percy, had walked clear over there to fetch it; he must have wanted to lever something very badly. But what?"

_Curious._

"Yes! And when I looked carefully, I saw that part of the room had been swept. Stomped all over, but before that, swept. And one squarish stone near the broom and the crowbar had an iron ring bored into the face of it! And! There was an interesting pattern in the dust round that stone: Sort of blown away, as though the stone had been lifted and dropped back down; the air current created by the fall had blown the dust. Do you understand?"

_Yes. _

"The pattern, the footprints and the sweeping overlapped in such a way to reveal the course of events: First the stone had been half swept; then, it had been lifted and dropped, creating the blown dust pattern; the footprints had come last."

_Okay._

"So I looked at that stone in particular, and noticed a small notch centered on one edge. Suddenly, the rope Mr. Armitage was holding and the crowbar made more sense: They were to lift this stone! The poem had said, 'east of hellish pit and down and _down!'_ This was the second 'down!'"

_Ah!_

"I fit the crowbar into the notch: A perfect fit! And lifted- Oh, but I couldn't. I mean, I could budge it a tiny bit, but it was very heavy!"

_Oh, dear._

"So I squatted down, and I thought a bit more: This must have been what happened with Percy. So-okay, I'm Percy again: I went down into the storage room, and I saw all the dust, or I couldn't see anything _because_ of the dust. So I fetched the sheep barn broom and swept until I found the flagstone with the ring. Okay. So then, I fetched the crowbar and tried to lever up the stone, and I did, a bit, but I couldn't hold it. I needed a partner. So I fetched Mr. Armitage!"

_Of course! _

"Yes! And I make him come with me! We thread the rope in the ring; I lever the stone again, and he pulls it up. While he holds the rope, I drop the stepladder in the new opening! _That _was how Mr. Armitage came to be trapped in the storage room: Percy had taken his ladder! Mr. Armitage had been trying to get _out _with the rope when he had had his attack!"

_Good Lord!_

"Right! So I- I'm being Percy again- So, using the stepladder, I go into the lower storeroom, only something happens, and the flagstone crashes down, and I'm trapped! I can't- I can't-!"

_Oh, God!_

"Yes! That's when I -Me, Sherlock- realized I must open the stone! I fetched the rope and threaded it through the ring and pulled: Couldn't budge it. I thought I would have to wait for help, but then I noticed another ring in the ceiling above the stone and another on the wall behind, and I swept a bit and found still another in a smallish stone in the floor! I thought, 'Aha! This must have been _their_ system.' I meant the original writers of the poem! Because, 'With enough pulleys we can move anything!'"

_"__Give me a lever long enough and a fulcrum on which to place it, and I shall move the world." That was Archimedes._

"Okay, but I was using rings. As pulleys."

_Okay._

"Okay! So, I threaded the rope through the ceiling ring (I had to fetch a box to stand on) and the floor one, and then the one in the wall, and I pulled, and I did it! I got the stone up!"

_Bravo!_

"Yes! So I tied the rope off and looked in the lower storeroom: There was the stepladder and a pile of rubbish covered with dust and a crumpled up person. Percy. He was quite still."


	7. Chapter 7

The Brother on My Back

Chapter 7.

_Oh, dear!_

"As I was looking, I heard, 'Sherlock! Sherlock?' It was Victor's mother. Come to fetch me."

_What did you do?_

"I called that I was in the storage room, of course. She knelt by the opening and said, 'What are you doing?'

"And I said, 'I've found Percy.'

"She said, 'What?' and went down the ladder. I showed her the lower storeroom and explained what had happened. She listened. When I was done, she looked in at Percy, closed her eyes and said, 'Oh, God. Stupid, stupid Percy. Listen,' Now she was talking to me again. She said, 'Dad has been asking for you.' She meant Mr. Armitage; I guess she called him 'Dad' even though he was just her father in law."

_I understand._

"She said, 'He's had a stroke. He's a bit difficult to understand, but he's been talking about Percy and being trapped; I'd thought he was delirious, but now- Right. Let's prop up this stone; I'll go down and check on Percy, and then we'll go to the hospital. Will you wait here?'

"I said I would. After she left, I went down to see-"

_You went into that lower storeroom when the stone wasn't propped!_

"Yes. I didn't think she would allow me, and I wanted to see-"

_Sherlock! -_Ian snapped off the recorder. "That wasn't safe!"

"The rope held up the stone,"protested the boy.

"Thank God!"

"Thank me, really. I'm the one who tied it off properly."

Tightly, Ian explained, "I meant it would have been a tragedy if something had happened to you."

"Oh." Sherlock looked thoughtful, and shrugged. "Right. Well, down there, I found that Percy was dead. Was it a heart attack?"

With rather more force than necessary, Ian pressed the _record _button-_Total systems failure, according to Vera Musgrave. He had been living on borrowed time for quite a while; the shock of being trapped pushed him over the edge._

"Okay. He wasn't dead long, though, I could still move his arm."

_You touched him!_

"Yes, and he was still flexible: Rigor mortis was just setting in."

_Sherlock- I- I'm- _Long pause.

"You're what?"

_I'm- Sorry you experienced that. A corpse! How dreadful!_

"Not really. A bit weird, I suppose. The skin was cool, not cold. In books they always describe corpses as being cold, but Percy's arm was the same temperature as the lower storeroom, which made sense: Living men make their own heat; dead ones assimilate."

_Oh-_

"The important thing was the rubbish he was atop. I blew off some dust: Gold! Masks and medallions and cups! All decorated with skulls and frogs and things! I took a coin, and I climbed back up-"

_Sherlock!_

"What?"

_You took a coin! Bad form! That does not belong to you!_

"I know! I'll give it back! Victor's mother returned with a car jack, set it in the opening, went down and called, 'He's dead.' Then she climbed back up and said, 'Let's ring 999 and get you to Dad.'

"So we did that: Alerted the authorities; went to the hospital. When we got there, Victor was by his grandpa's bed, sort of staring. Mr. Armitage was quite still and his eye was shut, so I thought he was dead as well, but no. Victor's mother touched his shoulder and said, 'Dad? Dad?' And Mr. Armitage opened his eye, and she said, 'I've got him, Dad. I've brought Sherlock. Here.'

"And Mr. Armitage caught my wrist and whispered, 'Per'ee.' He was asking for Percy; it was garbled, but you could understand it."

_Okay._

"Before I could answer, Victor's mother said, 'It's all right, Dad. We found him. We found Percy.'

Mr. Armitage pulled on my wrist and said, 'Yeah-?'

"I said it was true, and I began to tell him how I'd done it, but he interrupted and said, ''S'all righ'?'

"I guessed he was asking if Percy was all right, so I said, 'No. He's dead. We found him atop the treasure.'"

_Oh-!_

"I tried to show him the coin, but he wasn't looking. He was crying. Shaking. Saying, 'Cou'n! Cou'n!'"

_Oh, dear!_

"It was weird: The part of his face that could move was all crumpled and wet; the other half perfectly still. Victor's mother put her hand on his shoulder again and asked, 'Oh, Dad! You couldn't hold the rope? Couldn't get him out?' He shook harder and nodded, and she said, 'Of course you couldn't! It was impossible.'

"And I said, 'Nearly impossible.'"

With a swift-_pop-_Ian snapped off the recorder and glared. "_Nearly_ impossible?"

"I was able to get in, and he was stronger than me," explained Sherlock. "Than I. Than I was. Stronger than I-"

"Sherlock!"

"What?"

"Entirely-! Really! Rather-" With a deep breath, "Not everyone is as clever as you! He wasn't educated after all."

"Oh, he was clever," Sherlock answered with assurance. "Clever enough to pass for someone educated. To be a magistrate. And he was a farmer: He knew how to handle heavy things. He would have known to tie off that rope! The rings were right there!"

Ian drew slightly away. "Just what are you suggesting?"

"Percy was horrid; a parasite on the family. Mr. Armitage should have been thrilled he was dead. Instead, he was crying. I think he was trying to convince us he was sad Percy was dead. And why would he do that, unless-" Sherlock gave a meaningful look.

"You think he released the rope intentionally."

The boy immediately glanced down. "I don't know. I can't fathom it! This is why I wanted to make this recording." He straightened and declared, "If James Armitage's intention was to kill, he was clever enough to have lured Percy down there, trapped him and left him for dead. Easy! Instead, he trapped himself and tried to alert us to Percy's whereabouts! It doesn't make sense! Is he guilty or not?"

Ian felt his head whirl. Sherlock was gazing at him, expectant, and he had nothing. Nothing except: "Why don't you try what worked before: Put yourself in his place."

"Oh! Right. Okay. So-I am Mr. Armitage. I am holding a rope that is preventing a stone from trapping a thief and a wastrel who knows my true identity."

"What do you do?"

"I let go. Of course."

Ian forced his voice to remain calm. "You? A magistrate? Sworn to uphold the law?"

"It was self defense!" Sherlock paused. After a moment, he allowed, "Sort of. Percy could have made me lose everything. Besides," he looked up defiantly, "I'm an impostor; I have all ready broken the law."

"Yes. But you were a reluctant impostor." An idea announced itself, and Ian stopped. And thought. Then continued, slowly, "You know, Sherlock, were it me, that might be the very reason I would not have let go."

"What?"

"Percy was the one person who knew James Armitage's actual identity; the only link to his real past."

"Percy wasn't the only one!" Sherlock blurted. "I knew it! I, me, Sherlock, I knew he was James Armitage!"

"Yes," Ian held out his hands soothingly, "Yes, you did. You were very clever. But you hadn't grown up with him." The notion was blooming, becoming clearer and truer as he spoke. "You didn't know his father. When you grow older, you feel those losses keenly."

"Oh." The boy's indignation eased. "Well. If you say so; you would know, I suppose. Okay," with another frown, "so Mr. Armitage didn't let go intentionally. But why didn't he tie off the rope then?"

"Well, perhaps he was trying to do just that," answered Ian. "Or-" A new notion "-perhaps he was guilty, but not in the way you imagine."

"What do you mean?"

"Perhaps he had a moment of indecision."

"A- what?"

Ian struggled to explain: "A moment in which he wasn't decided whether or not to release the rope. That indecision caused him to fumble when tying it off. And it slipped."

Sherlock stared. "So he trapped Percy by accident? By not acting decisively."

"Sort of. Yes." Ian nodded hopefully and concluded: "A moment of indecision."

"'A moment of indecision,'" repeated Sherlock. He met Ian's eye and stated, "People should act. To prevent harm, I mean. Not to do so is wrong."

"Yes. Of course they should. But people do think about things; have moments of indecision. Generally."

"Perhaps they shouldn't," remarked the boy. "It caused a man to lose his life."

"Have you another explanation?"

"Nope. That one alone fits the facts." Sherlock mulled it. "Hm!"

Oddly gratified, Ian turned on the recorder once again-_What happened at the hospital?_

A sigh. "Mr. Armitage seemed to fall asleep, but all the alarms, the monitors and such, began to whistle and whoop. Horrible! The nurses came rushing in, so I left."

_You left._

"Yes."

_And you told no one where you were going. _

"I came here. And I found- I found you."

_People were worried, lad. Before you came, Vera Musgrave rang here: The entire hospital was up in arms. They were on the verge of calling the police._

"You are here to take Mycroft, aren't you."

_Don't change the subject. Your disappearance was-_

"You wasted a trip. He won't go."

_-Bad form! You were missing for hours; caused untold, needless worry. Quite irresponsible. What have you to say for yourself?_

"I'm fine. No one need fuss!"

_Sherlock-_

"I didn't have my bicycle, so I took the tube! I had to walk the last eight and a half kilometers. That's five point two- point two- point three-

_Sherlock-_

"The _ruddy_ imperial system!"

_Sherlock!_

"Completely obsolete!Why do you _cling _to it?"

_Mr. Holmes!_

"Did Daddy _summon_ you?"

_You are-_

"And _direct_ you to _fetch_-"

_-being rather- _

-Mycroft?"

_-impertinent! _

Long pause. "Sorry."

Long inhale. Long exhale. _All right. Your father rang me to arrange for a tutor in Moscow to prepare Mycroft for his A-levels. As your car was still indisposed, I offered to deliver your brother to the airport. _

_"_He doesn't want to go. You can't make him."

_He's changed his mind. Apparently, Miranda talked him round. She's agreed-_

"Miranda is going to Moscow!"

_No. She will send him care packages-_

"He won't go!"

_I'm afraid he is packing as we speak. I'm sorry-_

"Sorry! Everyone is _always_ sorry! _I _am afraid this is completely unacceptable! You can't take him! He doesn't want to go!"

"But I do, Sherlock. Of course I do."

Mycroft entered the room with two large suitcases, and Ian snapped off the mini recorder, removed the cassette and slipped it into his pocket. The elder Holmes boy paused in the entryway and gazed at his brother. "You're back, then."

Sherlock leapt up. "Mycroft! Look!" he exclaimed, brandishing something. "I found it! The treasure! See!"

Mycroft extended a palm, and Sherlock dropped in the gold piece. Peering down, the older boy turned the coin slowly.

Ian peered also: It was irregularly circular, dullish ocher and embossed. Authentic? Hm. Ian then surreptitiously took note of the boys themselves: Where Sherlock was dark, Mycroft was ginger. While Mycroft's features were coarse and mature, Sherlock's were fine and elastic, although the planes and angles of his skull were beginning to emerge. Of course, the most pronounced difference was in their size: Sherlock was sharply gaunt with spindle-like limbs; Mycroft had, over the years, swollen to enormous proportions: A heavy, tear-shaped mass.

And yet they were clearly brothers: Both had domed foreheads and bone-white skin; they mirrored each other in that peculiar, disdainful way of speaking, and in the watching stillness- It was unnerving, that stillness! Strange, staring-

"There's a whole heap!" burst out Sherlock with an excited hop. "Coins and cups and plate-things with queer skulls and frogs-"

"Do you know what this is?" Mycroft's tone smothered.

The younger boy shook his head.

"It's Aztec. Looted from the new world in the sixteenth century. By Spain." A withering glance. "Do you know what this means?"

Sherlock again shook his head, more slowly this time.

"It was a payoff. The Musgraves were papist traitors, conspiring with Spain to dethrone Queen Elizabeth- Oh." A disgusted sigh. "That poem. The 'fiery sun' was a symbol of Mary, Queen of Scots. And 'lamb-like purpose lost and purpose gained' was a reference to Catholicism. Small wonder they fell out of favor. There must not have been enough evidence to implicate them for treason, or they all would have been drawn and quartered."

"They're all dead," offered Sherlock. "Percy died this afternoon."

"Better for the nation." Mycroft handed back the coin with a sniff. "Better for your friend. Nothing good could come from a history like that; some things are best allowed to fade away." He glanced at Ian. "I am ready," he pronounced.

Sherlock jerked upright. "Mycroft," he said urgently, "You ought not to go."

"Oh?" Mycroft gazed down at his brother. "And why is that?"

"It's not safe. It's the Soviet Union!"

"I'm not stupid, Sherlock. I know what it is. I'll be fine."

"You won't like it! They won't have your biscuits and teacakes and things."

"Miranda will send care packages." Mycroft glanced at Miranda, who, looking rather haggard, had appeared in the kitchen doorway. "Isn't that right?"

"Of course," she answered and turned to Ian and Sherlock. "He's to be an important asset. It's a great honor. He'll be fine, Sherlock. Tip top. Just fine."

Sherlock crossed his arms and appealed to Ian: "He'll not be fine! You must stop this! He'll freeze! Wool makes him itch! And he'll starve! He won't eat food that's the least bit sour or spiced; he can't abide vegetables, especially carrots; his drinking water must be cold, not warm, not even room temperature-"

"Sherlock." Miranda's tone was warning, but Sherlock only grew louder:

"-and if things aren't right, he freaks out! He has no friends, only tools! No one at Blaine will talk to him unless there's work to be cribbed! They hate him, and me too! They'll make me-"

"Oh! Is that your game!" Mycroft started forward-

"He spends the first fortnight of every term blubbering on the phone: 'I want to go home! The food is awful! My uniform binds!' Only Miranda will listen; Mummy and Daddy have washed their hands of him!" He whirled furiously at Mycroft, "Daddy cares nothing for you! Has he ever-"

"_Sherlock! _For _God's_ sake!" Miranda's voice cut, and she started also-

"_That's enough!_" barked Ian and moved in front of the boy.

The room went silent; holding its breath for a long second-

And Mycroft spoke: "Dad wants _me._"

Silence.

Straightening, Mycroft repeated, "I am ready," lifted one of the suitcases and passed through the door.

Feeling quite at sea, Ian grasped the other suitcase and followed. As he left, he took one last glance at Sherlock: The boy was glaring at the floor, mouth pursed as though he held something bitter between his teeth.

In the car, Mycroft fastened his seat belt with a weird, careful motion. Ian watched, again struck by how terribly strange the Holmes boys were, even as they pushed through space; not awkward, not exactly, just- odd. He cleared his throat and started the car, remarking, "Your brother is rather intriguing."

Mycroft wrinkled his nose. "He's small. A small mind solving small problems for small people. He's clever enough, I suppose, at some things. But he's awfully- " He broke off and glanced at Ian. "You will look after him, won't you? He does stupid things."

"Well. He seems to want monitoring."

"He wants looking after-! Ah." Mycroft's eyes shifted away. "You're head master. You shan't have time."

"Oh, I'll watch him!" assured Ian. "I'll watch him closely. He's quite brilliant! That organic chemistry-" he stopped. Could Mycroft have been involved?

"He told you about that. The mid-term exam."

Ian kept his face neutral. "He was quite forthcoming."

"Well." The elder brother shrugged. "I hope you didn't fall for that rubbish about cribbing work. I have always respected the honor code."

"Of course. Of course." Falling silent, Ian reflected: An unnamed, perfect exam. A hall tainted with fraud. A young student taking an exam for a course far too advanced for him. A brother who had done the same four years before- Oh, God! An initiation! An organized ring of cheats! Ian felt a slow wrench. Sherlock was being groomed-

"Ah." Mycroft was gazing at him. "No one forced him. He wanted to put a stop to the thing and prove his mettle in organic chemistry at the same time. Far simpler to have used a lower sixth man, but Sherlock begged. Practiced for hours with that elastic. I indulged him, regrettably."

Ian gripped the steering wheel. "Indulged him."

"Regrettably."

"Tell me more."

"There's nothing more to tell. We unearthed the Grayton scheme, and Sherlock insisted we put a stop to it."

"We."

Mycroft stared. He spoke slowly, "Sherlock and I." With eyes narrowed, "What did he say?"

Ian met his stare. "Who else was involved?"

"Just the three lower-sixths who snuck him in."

Right. Inter-house rivalry and a full fledged cabal, leading first years astray! Ian knew how these things worked: Sherlock had obviously proven to be both able and susceptible; he would continue to be tapped, unless- With a glance at Mycroft, "What would you say if I transferred your brother from Blaine to another house. Wilkerson, perhaps. He has a friend there: Victor Musgrave."

Gazing out of the window as London slipped past, Mycroft was perfectly impassive. "I'd say he played his cards admirably. It's what he's always wanted."

The words gave Ian pause, but, ah- Mycroft would say that: His little empire was falling to pieces. "You'll miss him, then," Ian remarked.

Mycroft, his cheek against the glass, said not one word.

* * *

Thank you so much for reading! I am very interested in your feedback: Love, hate, indifferent; all I ask is that you be specific. -AL2000


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